


Down For Left

by Ledaeus



Category: Thief (Video Game 2014), Thief (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - British, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Basso is a Brummie, Car Chases, Garrett is a Londoner, Gen, Theft, WHAT MORE COULD YOU WANT?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 18:26:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17188100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ledaeus/pseuds/Ledaeus
Summary: [ Part of the modern Brit AU for Thief and Dishonored ]Basso wishes he never took Garrett on this job. He wishes he never taught Garrett how to drive. Sometimes, he wishes Garrett would be less reckless but then again, his speed has saved their arses more than once, and although he'd never admit it, he wouldn’t change Garrett for the world.Birmingham, UK, January 2019.Garrett, 22, is a petty criminal, hacker, and on the wrong side of the law. Basso, 32, is a fence of stolen goods, safecracker, tattoo artist, and adoptive big brother of Garrett. Together they work to rob businesses of their expensive goodies and sell them off for cash. But even the best criminals can't be perfect. When the police are called on them during a job, they have to make a quick getaway. Even the most rigorous of plans have weaknesses, and Garrett finds this all too clear while escaping with Basso.





	Down For Left

**Author's Note:**

> We're planning on adding more stuff to this later, some more Dishonored/Corvett stuff. Down For Left is basically the prologue to the series. Hope you enjoy!

Basso yells obscenities and clutches his seat as Garrett takes another hairpin bend. The engine judders _horribly_ beneath them and the tyres screech hot black marks into the tarmac, the car _rolling_ on its axes too far off to the right for anything that could be described as comfort. They missed the postbox that time, but what about the next? What about on their next job? What if they crash and the police catch them? Then they’ll be fucking sorry. The goddamn car itself isn’t going to take much more of this, and who knows what’s going to go first? Basso briefly wonders if crashing head-first into a wall at 50mph is a particularly painful way to go.

50mph in what would be classed _by law_ as a residential zone, too. They’re in deep, deep shit this time. All for a few fucking watches.

Basso wishes he never took Garrett on this job. He wishes he never taught Garrett how to drive. Sometimes, he wishes Garrett was less reckless but then again, his speed has saved their arses more than once, and although he wouldn’t admit it, he wouldn’t change Garrett for the world. Well, apart from that greasy bloody attempt at a moustache and goatee - that, he’d change. He’d pin Garrett down in his sleep and shave it off himself if he could. Garrett can taunt Basso about his hat all he wants, but Basso always just shoots back that at least he doesn’t look like he’s trying to hide a furry slug on his top lip.

Basso had thought it was all going so well. Garrett had agreed to come along with him on a joint job and had, naturally, pried open the back door of the shop and dealt with the security systems while Basso kept watch, and then he’d gone to deal with the safes in the back. They’d made away with at least fifteen nice, shiny pieces of varying brands (Basso had not bothered to look, it was usually something he did when he got back to safety) and then returned to the car, quietly laughing between themselves, but someone must have seen them, decided for once not to yell and had done exactly what Basso and Garrett didn’t want them to do - quietly call the police.

No point crying over spilt milk, Basso thinks, willing himself not to vomit all over the dashboard, what’s done is done, and they have to deal with the consequences. Now all they have to do is shake the police.

Garrett looks over coolly from the driver’s seat and raises an eyebrow, shifting into fourth, speeding out of the residential zone and onto a dual carriageway, weaving in-between cars to a rousing chorus of horns. “Thought you’d be used to this by now Basso, ten years minimum of criminal activity and you’re not down for the chase?”

“I’m down for the chase if it’s not led by an utter mania- Watch it!” he slaps the side of Garrett’s arm frantically and points ahead at a pair of tail lights they’re approaching entirely too quickly. Garrett’s eyes widen as he snaps his head back to the road and pulls on the steering wheel, saving both themselves and the driver in front from an unfortunate demise, the fingerless driving gloves creaking on the leather as he does so. Basso also wishes he wouldn’t wear those things but Garrett seems to like them, so he holds his tongue.

“If you didn’t have me you’d be in custody by now,” Garrett says, this time not taking his eyes off the road, “You’re too slow for this shit now, admit it. Too many nights in the ring. It’s killing off all your brain cells.”

Basso grabs the side of the seat again and turns bodily to face Garrett, “If I didn’t box I’d lose my sanity just from having to make sure you don’t accidentally crash the car or get your head trapped in a safe.”

Garrett rolls his eyes. Slams his foot down on the accelerator. The engine whines horribly. Gear’s too low.

Clutch down. Transmission in fifth. Clutch up. Back on the accelerator. There’s a judder as the engine roars in protest and Basso’s heart skips a beat. Garrett’s a quick learner but he doesn’t always get his timings right, and one day a gearbox is going to give out on them, he’s sure of it. Police sirens whine behind them.

Garrett doesn’t seem to care. Takes it in his stride. Doesn’t get flustered or panicked, and if he does then he keeps it well-hidden. He’s totally the opposite of Basso - cool, calm, rolls with the punches, while Basso is hot-headed and anxious. Well, he’s anxious about endangering both their lives with bad driving, and anxious about being caught by the police - again. That’s something that Garrett’s never experienced, and Basso hopes he never will do. If it were up to him, then he’d have made sure that Garrett stayed in school and got some good A-levels, or went off to do an apprenticeship to become an electrician or a mechanic, but Garrett’s never been one to listen to anyone remotely considered authority. He doesn’t even live here legally. Basso would put actual money (not something he parts with easily) on the fact that the government _probably_ doesn’t know where he is, that they lost track of him at sixteen and he managed to disappear into the seas of the General Public with the aid of a criminal adoptive big brother and a dodgy landlord. He’s twenty-two now. Six years on the run. Basso doesn’t know anyone else like it, thinks it’s amazing. Such raw talent is only what drew him into working with Garrett. His edgy mannerisms and bloody-minded personality are only minor drawbacks.

“Basso, I’ve got this,” Garrett says, fruitlessly trying to placate his friend, although both of them know it never works, “We’ll be fine, just need to-” he swerves again, readjusting the path of the car to narrowly miss a lorry and carefully watches the red-and-blue flashing lights half a mile behind them in the rear-view, “We just need to shake these bastards and then we can talk.”

Basso nods and grips his seatbelt with the one not holding the seat, willing himself not to grab the wheel out of Garrett’s hands and take control of the car. It is true; all that matters now is losing the police. Garrett slides the transmission into sixth. They pick up speed. The car fishtails ever so slightly. It’s still enough to sent Basso into palpitations.

Garrett abruptly reaches down and switches off the headlights to Basso’s great dismay. He’s not sure if Garrett thinks he’s less likely to be chased and caught without them on, but between the two evils, Basso resolutely decides being caught is the definitely lesser. “What are you doing? Are you mad? Turn them back on before you get us both killed.”

“I’ve got this,” Garrett repeats firmly and they cruise along the dual carriageway at something approaching 90, “Basso, you need to just let me do my job or I _am_ going to make a mistake. Just let me handle it.” He pushes a stray strand of dark hair out of his face and tucks it behind his ear, his eyes still flickering between the road, the rear and side-view mirrors in a repetitive motion. At least he knows how to cover his arse properly.

Basso bristles but still sits on his hands in order to force himself not to slap Garrett for his stupidity and arrogance. Is this how he always handles chases? Has he even been in any before? The sudden appearance of a tree at the side of the road has him reeling. Garrett chuckles from the driver’s seat and the engine whirrs beneath them.

Stolen. It’s not theirs. Garrett nicked it some weeks ago and they’ve had it ever since. They’ll probably dump it at the end of the night if it’s not a write-off, the plates are associated with them now, it would be dangerous to be seen out with it any more, especially in daylight. He’s sure Garrett won’t find any issue in stealing a new one, technical or moral.

The street lights flash above them, rapidly throwing Garrett’s face into orange relief and then out again. Sodium-vapour, the old ones. The new LED ones are much brighter and make it more difficult to lose the police, but also make it easier to see. Wouldn’t be an issue if Garrett hadn’t turned their own lights off. 

Garrett clicks the barbell in his tongue against his teeth. That’s probably as much of a nervous reaction as anything’s going to get out of him. He asked for it at seventeen and Basso had always been nervous about doing it, but the clicking that came after somehow made him even more irritating. The whinging too, oh god the whinging. Garrett had complained nonstop about how much it hurt for weeks after the fact. And now he won’t stop fucking playing with it. Basso contemplates telling him off but decides against it. Garrett’s clicking is annoying, but not as annoying as being caught by the police or writing off the car. Basso wonders if the pigs have helicopters after them too.

The sirens slowly get quieter. Garrett continues to weave in and out of other cars and vans, but gives the road his undivided attention. Basso isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. He isn’t sure whether Garrett does this because it’s business or because it gives him some kind of weird high. Maybe it’s both. They don’t make a lot of money from their heists, it’s rare to be able to grab much, or grab the right things, or sell them off to the best clients, and from what Basso can tell, Garrett’s not the richest of people. He lives in a shitty studio flat on the wrong end of Birmingham, for Christ’s sake. He has the same flip-phone he used when he was sixteen. Basso has to give him food sometimes because he can’t afford it. This has to be for the fun or he’d have long ago realised that it’s not lucrative enough to live off of.

Garrett slows slightly and they take the third exit of a roundabout. The car rolls on its axes again, but this time Basso isn’t worried about holding down his metaphorical lunch. His heart’s still pounding, but driving slightly slower, even if it is to pass a roundabout, is some respite. He breathes.

Basso’s ten years older than Garrett, for god’s sake. Surely he should be doing more than encouraging him to go on heists. He would feel guilty about himself if he weren’t such a terrible person.

“You’ve fucked up Basso,” he murmurs to himself under his breath. Garrett looks around.

“You what?”

They speed up again as they enter another open, extended stretch of road.

“I’m saying I shouldn’t have fucking let you get involved in any of this. You should have finished your GCSEs and become a respectable member of society.”

Garrett blows through his lips and shakes his head, “Not for me.”

“Yeah, you don’t need to tell me that you bloody delinquent,” Basso says and rolls his eyes, watching the road as they speed along. The sirens have all but disappeared now, the flashing lights not much more than a faint glimmer far behind them. They’re not out of the red yet, but they’re well on their way. In one last, final push, Garrett shifts back into fifth, then sixth and bares down on the accelerator. Hums softly underneath his breath, adjusts the rear-view mirror and drums his fingers on the wheel.

“Delinquent is rich coming from you. How much do you think we-”

“Lights,” Basso says, slapping Garrett’s arm.

“What?”

“Lights.”

Up ahead there’s a set of traffic lights in red. Garrett shrugs and continues, but a small group of pedestrians quickly emerge from the dark. There’s a shocked grunt from Garrett and a yell from Basso as the brakes slam on and they’re both carried forward by the momentum, the seatbelts snapping taut. The car stalls with a cough and a groan as it slows in too high a gear, the smell of burning rubber on the tarmac penetrating in the cold night. Basso goes rigid and hyperventilates, the seatbelt having knocked all the wind from him. He looks over at Garrett, wide-eyed, ready to furiously yell at him. 

The pedestrians squeal and run off into the night. If Garrett had had his lights on then this wouldn’t have happened. He would never forgive himself if he accidentally hurt someone. Neither of them would.

Garrett takes a moment to collect himself and shakes off the lingering physical trauma of the sudden stop. His hand shakes vigorously as he reaches for the gear stick and he presses the clutch down again, shifting back into first. Turns the key in the ignition. The dash lights up again, red and orange lights blinking in sweet confirmation. They should be good to go. 

Then he stalls.

“What’s up?” Basso asks frantically, vibrating where he sits in anticipation, “Why isn’t it going?”

Garrett doesn’t respond. Just tries again. Turns the key. Accelerator down. A cough and it cuts out. He huffs frantically.

He tries again. And again.

“You’re trying to do it too quickly, Garrett, I- give it to me.”

Garrett shakes his head, tries again, and the car jerks forward into another dead stall. “I’ve got this Basso.”

“No you don’t bloody have this, get out,” another moment of silence and then Basso unclips himself, swings the door open, gets out, slams it closed and walks around to look at Garrett through the driver’s window, “Get out the fucking car before I drag you out.”

The sirens begin to crescendo again in the distance. The lights come back into view. Basso’s heart is hammering in his chest.

“Garrett, I’m warning y- _Garrett!”_ he raises his voice sharply in a very clear warning. Basso never intends on having kids - would be a miracle if a woman even looked at him in that way - but this is what he believes being a parent is like, and that’s the tone he knows he’d use if they were little shits. Hell, Garrett himself is a bit of a little shit.

“ _Fine_ ,” Garrett says and unbuckles his seatbelt, pushing the door open and looping around to the back door on the driver’s side, slamming it behind him as he climbs in and crosses his arms over his chest, prompting Basso to replace Garrett in the driver's seat. He wills his heart to slow down, tries to dispel the dryness in his throat and the red halo pulsing around the edges of his vision as he turns the key. _Carefully_ eases it into first. _Tentatively_ lifts off the clutch and presses down on the accelerator.

“And put your fuckin’ seatbelt on, Garrett. I’m not having you die if we crash.”

The pair buckle up and the car rumbles into life, edges forward, slowly at first, and then picks up speed as they exit the danger zone for stalling. They creep over 10mph, approach 20, Basso slides the transmission into second and then third gear. The police sirens stop approaching, then slowly recede as they gain more and more ground. The red and blue lights stop flashing around the inside of the car. He doesn’t even nearly match the speed that Garrett was working the car at earlier, but it’s still fast. They’re still ducking and diving between the occasional car, still taking erratic corners, still the car fishtails from time to time, but they also have their headlights on. They are so much safer. Garrett sits in the back, sulking.

He’s been playing with the boxes of stolen watches in the back seat, silently. He turns one over in his hands, opens it at the end and gently slides the display cushion out, wriggling it into his palms. It’s black, velvet, has that new smell. The watch itself is gorgeous: rose gold, shiny, in pristine condition.

It’s also fake.

These things happen. There’s never any time to be appraising their loot while on the scene, and generally they try to avoid fake shinies. But why would a watch shop be supplying fake merchandise? He looks at the case again. It looks real; it’s very convincing, real leather, the logo embossed on the side, the clasp steel and decorated just as a real one would be, but the watch itself is a dud. Makes this whole chase completely pointless. He sighs.

“What’s up?” Basso asks from the back, flashing Garrett a concerned look in the mirror and hoping he won’t just blank him like he does sometimes when he’s sulking.

“Watches are fake, Basso,” Garrett says in return, holding the watch up, not missing a beat, “This one’s quartz. Not mechanical.”

Basso swears loudly and slams his hands on the wheel. They bank dangerously for a moment before he manages to compose himself enough to grab the wheel again and correct their course. They might have lost the police but Basso ain’t getting his life expectancy back. He’s sure the stress took five years off his life, at the very least. “Why the fuck would a watch shop sell fake watches?”

Garrett shrugs and continues to play with the fake in his hands, “Dunno. Maybe someone got there before us?”

“Maybe they’ve been having problems with theft and wanted a decoy?”

“Possibly,” Garrett says absentmindedly, still turning the watch over in his hands, “You’d think we’d have heard of it by now.”

Basso grunts in agreement and continues to speed down the dual carriageway, taking them both back towards Basso’s tattoo shop. He’s been a tattoo artist since he was eighteen. Does piercings too, and fences stolen goods on the side. He makes do. He also doesn’t come on heists very often but sometimes Garrett needs his expertise, and he likes to tell himself that he can keep Garrett safe if things go wrong too.

They spend fifteen minutes driving in complete silence, Garrett sitting in the back, searching through the loot looking for a real watch, something, _anything_ to sell. Garrett’s already behind on rent, he can’t afford another month without income, he’s stretched to breaking point as is, been living off 11 pence dried noodles and a bottle of three-year-old soy sauce just to get some cash together. He has a mouldy potato in his cupboard for Christ’s sake. Basso’s sure he keeps it as a pet at this point, he’s had it so long. He can steal all he wants but he can’t steal free rent.

He comes up with nothing, because _of course he fucking does_. There’s always the chance that Basso can pawn something off to some idiot who doesn’t know the price of watches, but even that’s chancy. Not only is it unlikely to happen, but the chance that they’re a rogue job and come back angry is _far too fucking high_. They’ve had some dangerous clients before and Basso doesn’t want to repeat the experience, he’s said it before and he’ll say it again.

When they’re sure they’ve lost the police and hour or so later, they dump the car three miles out of town in some field that’s open and empty and cold. There’s a few minutes of them deciding whether to take the watches or not, and after some deliberation, they decide to leave them; they’re pretty much worthless and it’s just going to slow them down, a danger and a potential lead for the police if they drop one. Basso makes sure they’re not seen and then they creep around the back and onto the path behind it, through a dense wooded area skirting around fields with shadowy, coated horses grazing in the early morning light, follow that for several miles.

Garrett’s not dressed for this, a thin hoodie and a pair of ripped jeans are really not enough for a mid-January night’s walk. Basso nags him constantly over choosing the right clothes to wear on a heist and now it’s coming to bite him in the arse. Oh well. Basso’s nice and warm in his thick jacket and boots but Garrett’s freezing his toes off. It’s such a contrast coming from the toasty car with a heater and seat warmers.

“Couldn’t you have just called Erin?” Garrett asks after some time, the frustration all too clear in the silence of the night, “Would have been so much easier.”

Basso shakes his head. “Didn’t want to bring any attention to her. She can pick us up as soon as we come to the main road.”

Garrett just huffs and keeps walking. Trips over a rock, tries to correct himself with everything that’s not grace, takes an unsteady step, and then falls to the floor on his front. Gets dirt over the front of his jeans, his hoodie, his face. Basso belly-laughs because the image of Garrett with mud all over himself is hilarious, and what’s even funnier is the expression of pure, unbridled disgust on his face. He storms off, heading for the road with cars and lorries that are now clearly audible between the trees. Ones that only an hour ago they were weaving in and out of.

The signal should be good enough now for him to call Erin. Basso checks his phone; he’s right. Three bars. The light of dawn creeps above the treeline. Must be pretty late if it’s nearly getting light.

Erin picks up almost immediately. She’s been sleeping but she agrees to pick them up with only minor complaint. She won’t be happy about Garrett’s muddy clothes on her back seat though, she’s very particular about the condition of her car, has cute black-and-silver patterned seat covers and everything. 

Basso follows Garrett to the main road. He’s got a conversation to have with him about _The Highway Code._


End file.
